


Deep Hurting vs. The Power of Friendship

by generalsleepy



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [2]
Category: Mystery Science Theater 3000
Genre: Chronic Pain, Friendship, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 11:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15023489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/generalsleepy/pseuds/generalsleepy
Summary: Mike has chronic migraines. Thankfully, he's got the best pals in the galaxy to to lend a hand. Or at least try to.





	Deep Hurting vs. The Power of Friendship

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "chronic pain" with Mike Nelson. Not explicitly Joike, but you can take it as such if you'd like.

This was a rough one. A real _Manos_ of a migraine. A _Manos_ meets _Monster A-Go-Go_ meets _Red Zone Cuba_ of a migraine. Mike lay in bed, door shut, lights off, eyes closed, still miserable.

At least the Mads had decided that they weren’t going to make him watch movies when he had migraines during normal experiment times. When they did make him, he just ended up curled over in his seat in pain. When he was having a bad migraine he couldn’t tell the difference between _The Wild World of Batwoman_ and _Casablanca_ ; both were just sources of painful light and sound. He could barely manage a single half-hearted riff now and there. Dr. Forrester explained that he didn’t want a confounding variable messing with his experiment. Mike thought there might have been a hint of compassion in the decision.

Joel and the bots still had to watch, though. The Mads didn’t have to worry about him malingering, because he hated to leave them to suffer a movie alone. He’d ended up leaving them to the mercy of _Mesa of Lost Women_. He also had to admit that it felt a little disappointing to be left out of the camaraderie that came from surviving a real cinematic atrocity together.

Thankfully (?), this migraine had waited until the day after _Deathstalker and the Warriors from Hell_. Because, God forbid he be denied the comforting presence of that patented Relson charm to carry him through.

He’d had them since he was a teenager. His family and even doctors called them just bad headaches, so he’d forced himself to go to school as often as he could. He made it about a semester at junior college. Temping was the ideal job, because he had more freedom to bail when he absolutely could not go to work, because he felt like he was going to _die_ if he had to move.

It had, in fact, only been a month or so before he took the Gizmonic job when a doctor finally diagnosed him with chronic migraines. She’d been shocked no one had noticed before, and that he’d been struggling along this far with just Ibuprofen. He’d gotten a prescription to Imitrex that wasn’t as magical as he had honestly convinced himself to hope for, but it helped.

Then he got shot into space. As you do.

He was pretty sure that the migraines had gotten worse since he went to the Satellite of Love. They were a bit more frequent, but seemed to overall get more severe. Sometimes, he was just lightly miserable and got by avoiding triggers. Other times, like today (/tonight/whatever/space was confusing), he was stuck in bed for hours like this.

He really understood Jan in the Pan now. He was ready to beg his mad scientist fiancé to let him die.

The door whirred open. Mike groaned and dug his head into the pillow. The footfalls were soft enough not to hurt much, as the only person on the ship with feet approached.

Joel sat down on the bed. He reached out a hand and gently smoothed hair out of Mike’s sweaty face. “How you doing, honey?”

“Urghmmrgh.”

“So… is that a six?”

“Seven-ish,” he mumbled. "Seven-and-a-half."

“I’m sorry, hon.”

“Ehhh. Is wha’ i’ is.”

“I brought you some crackers and ginger ale. Think you can manage it?”

“Rather not.”

“Kinda need you to.”

“Bleghhh.”

“Just a little.”

His sigh was just slightly melodramatic as he dragged himself up on an elbow. His waited for his eyes to adjust until he could make out the brown-haired, sleepy-eyed, bejumpsuited Minnesotan smiling kindly at him. He heaved himself up just a little bit higher so he could take the proffered glass. He forced himself to sip at least a little bit.

“Better, worse, or same since the last time I checked in?”

Mike paused to consider. “Kinda better. A skosh.”

“A skosh is good.”

“I mean…”

“A skosh is less bad.”

“I’ll buy that.”

Joel handed him a Saltine. Even though his stomach was begging him not to, took the cracker and nibbled on it.

“I’m working on a new invention,” Joel said in a voice soft enough it didn’t grate. “It’s a wedding dress that converts to a wedding cake.”

“Sounds good.” His stomach was dealing fairly well with the drink and snack. He managed to get down two crackers and most of the glass. “Thanks,” he said as he handed the glass back to Joel.

“Hey, you’re the one whose sick. Here: eventually, I’ll be deathly ill, and you’re gonna have to take care of me. “

“Deal.” Mike laid back down and shut his eyes. He forgot whether or not he’d already thanked Joel, so he decided to thank him again, just to be sure.

“You’re welcome, Mike” Joel said. His hand returned to stroking Mike’s hair. It was nice to have the hair unstuck from his sweaty face, but he also found some comfort just in the soft touch itself.

“Tell me more about the… thing,” he said, forgetting the words that would convey what he remembered of Joel’s invention idea.

“Sure.” Joel started in on a detailed description of the invention process from inspiration through construction. Joel knew exactly the volume of speech that wouldn’t trigger Mike’s sensitivity to sound. Even though he knew he wasn’t following Joel as well as he would in a non-brain-hurty state (granted, when Joel got going talking about his inventions he could get hard to understand at the best of times), but the monologue was a welcome distraction from just wallowing in pain.

He was starting to think that maybe the migraine was getting better (retreating to a six-ish; maybe five-point-five), when the door whirred open again.

“Hey, Mike, how you feeling?” a loud, grating voice all-but shouted.

Mike moaned as pain stabbed through his brain. He buried his face in the pillow, as if he could burrow into a place where noises didn’t exist.

“Guys,” Joel said. He raised his voice slightly to be heard from across the room, but at least kept it quieter than Crow’s enthusiastic greeting.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Servo said. His voice was slightly quieter, but still in the brain-hurting range. “We just wanted to—” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Sorry. Check how you were doing.”

“‘M fine.”

“Really?” Gypsy exclaimed.

“No, not really, I don’t think,” Joel said. “Hey, guys, can you give Mike some space for now?”

“Sure,” Crow stage-whispered. “We’ll get back to making nachos in the neutron reactor.”

“You guys shouldn’t—” Joe stopped himself when he realized the futility of the effort. “Just don’t get cheese in the centrifuge again.”

“No promises,” Crow said cheerfully. “Hope you feel better, Mike.”

“Yeah, Mike,” Gypsy added.

“Thanks,” MIke said. “Save me some nachos, guys.” He was at least aware enough to know that, no matter how present him felt, future him would definitely eventually be in the mood for nachos.

“Can do!”

“Mike,” Joel said softly. “The nachos are going to be radioactive.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Once you feel better I’ll make you regular nachos.”

Mike smiled and nodded, still without opening his eyes.

“You sure?” Servo said. “You’ll miss that special neutron zest.”

“C’mon, guys, scoot.” Joel’s voice took on that gently authoritative, big brotherly tone that he used sometimes with the bots.

“Feel better soon, Mike,” Gypsy whispered.

“Stay strong, honey,” Servo said.

“Love ya, Steve!”

Crow had forgotten to even keep his voice at a soothing volume, but the words made it hard to be upset. “Thanks, guys.” He was relieved to have quiet restored when the bots left, but he also had to admit that he missed their company. It would been nice if their company could be even a little bit less loud, but it was good to know he had friends looking out for him.

Joel went back to stroking his hair. After what might have been a minute or so of silence, he murmured, “Do you want me to leave?”

Mike considered for a moment. “Could you stay a bit longer?”

“Sure, babe.”

Mike felt himself smiling faintly, even as his head continued to throb. Maybe the migraines had gotten worse in space, but he’d also found a group of friends who would always be there to help him. It was like how, before he lived on the SOL, he’d never suffered through a Coleman Francis movie, but he’d also never imagined that he’d spend his days sitting in a movie theater making jokes with a guy and two robots who could make anything funny.

If he could make it through _The Beast of Yucca Flats_ with sanity semi-firmly intact, he could definitely make it through a migraine, as long as he had his friends there with him.

Though, nachos would definitely help.


End file.
